The Hunt
by kkolmakov
Summary: Thorin considers himself a skilled hunter but who is the prey this time? A bit of fun and smut *No infringement intended* Probably a two-shot
1. Chapter 1

The healer is finishing up his work. The floor is covered with sheets, smeared with blood and balms, bowls of herbal essences and hot water, and used bandages. You are perched on a table in a corner, frowning and purposefully ignoring your very guilty looking king. He is trying to catch your eyes, simultaneously attempting to maintain royal dignity in front of his concerned warriors and servants hastily cleaning up the room. You are staring through a window into the yard, tapping your foot, your lips pressed, arms crossed in front of your chest. Your king is shifting on his seat uncomfortably, only partially because of bandages covering his whole right side, from shoulder to his waist. Two wide planks of wood are tied to his arm fixating his wrist, his elbow bent, supported by more bandages. "All is done, my lord", the healer bows and leaves the room dismissed with an absent-minded nod. Others scurry away from the chamber. The younger ones lower their heads, as if trying to escape a metaphorical storm gathering under the ceiling. The older ones hide smiles in their beards. They know the power of your displeasure and try to preserve their leader's pride pretending that he is not to be scolded as soon as the door closes behind them.

The room is empty and you hear a cautious cough behind you. Without turning around, you walk to the dinner table in the opposite corner and pour yourself a mug of mead. You hear rustling behind you and look around. Your king is struggling with his shirt, trying to put it on with only his left arm. He is rather pitiful, as you suspect at least partially on purpose. The sad look under his lashes that he gives you proves your suspicion. Oh, the nerve!.. You return to your initial position, taking sips from your mug. With a sign your king abandons his battle and gives you a mournful look. "Zundush...", the low drawl aimed to pacify you rumbles deep in his chest. You clench your jaw and lift a brow. "I'm listening", your tone is venomous. He drops his head. "You were right, I shouldn't have gone to the hunt..." You make a scornful noise. "Azyungel...", he gets up and slowly advances. You scoff and put the mug on the sill with a bang. He slows down and tries a different tactic. "I'm but scratched, my azyungel", he gives you an exaggerated cheerful smile. "Indeed you are, my lord", you snort sarcastically and then suddenly grab a pillow lying on the same sill and throw it at him. The pillow hits him to the face. The second before it he jerks his right arm without thinking and snarls. "You are in perfect health, my lord. And all for what?", you are getting angrier by the second now that you are finally talking. "For a promise of a blood shed! They promised you a rare beast and you have but run out of the gates". The king lowers his head and nods. But not even for a second do you believe in his humble demeanor. "You are only agreeing with me as you haven't returned with a bleeding gutted corpse of the beast", you make a disgusted face, "and managed to get injured at the same time. If you had succeeded, you'd be drinking with your warriors and then loudly demanding favours in the bedroom as...", you mockingly puff your chest and mimic his booming voice, overdoing his rolling consonants, "the glorious heir of Durin". He makes the mistake of twitching his lips in an attempt to hide a smile. You gasp in disdain and start marching to the door. "Then I hope this glorious heir of Durin will enjoy sleeping in his dining chambers tonight without..." You fail to finish when he grabs you with his left arm across your middle and presses your body into his. You yelp. "Careful, you brute! You'll hurt your shoulder more!" You anxiously try to move away from the injured side. He buries his face into your neck and mumbles what you suspect is an apology. You are still trying to free yourself but it is an increasingly insincere effort. Eventually you give up and sign. "I bet you do not even understand my anger", you say mournfully. He hugs you tighter and whispers in your ear, "You are angry because you disapprove of any killing and do not consider it worth spending a few days on a bog and getting injured over". You push his healthy shoulder, albeit very cautiously. "I am angry because you scared me to death, you half-witted oaf!", he chuckles into your neck and you push him again, "and I do know swearing is not my forte!". He actually has the nerve to guffaw. "Not your forte? A dwarven youngling can do better before they even dream of growing a beard!" "Don't change the subject!", you step back and shake your finger in front of his long nose, but then he tries to catch it with his mouth and you know that most likely you have lost this battle. "Thorin," as the last resort you switch to your serious tone and he stops and actually looks at you, "they carried your blooded body into the yard. You were pale and unmoving. Can you even imagine what seeing that did to me?! I have seen you injured in battles, I have wrapped your wounds with pieces torn from my tunic, knee-deep in swamp water, I have sat over your feverish thrashing body for three nights", you are being overdramatic but this is your only chance to bring your point across, "and I would do it all over again and would stroke down the first person who would say it was not worthy and justified, but, Thorin... Over blood thirst and barbaric amusement?! For a sake of slaying a helpless innocent living thing?!" "Helpless?! It slashed half my body!" "I thought you said it was just a scratch!", you see him struggling to find a clever answer but you do not let him get distracted. "My urzud", the familiar intimate appellation stops him in his tracks, "I'll follow you in any battle and support you in any war but I'll stop at nothing to prevent you from endangering your life for something such trivial as pursuing a being that cannot even be used for food, clothing or medicine!" You hold your breath and look into his eyes. The long dark lashes flutter and he looks down. You have won. He offers you his left hand and you gladly take it.

Your lover is a prideful warrior and an authoritative leader, and as much as he can pretend and play an obedient pup, admitting he was wrong is not an easy task for him. He pulls you into his embrace and you readily wrap your arms around his neck, mindful of the right side. He sighs and whispers, "Next time I'll be more careful", into your hair. That is all you are getting but nothing more is needed to be said. You feel his hot breath behind your ear and then his lips follow. Soon his healthy hand is roaming you back and bottom and he is slightly biting your neck. Since he is busy nibbling on your ear and shoulder, he fails to notice the wicked smile on your face. For his own sake you need to reinforce today's lesson.

You step away from him and walk towards your shared sleeping chambers. On your way you start shedding layers of clothing. Behind you, you hear a surprised chuckle and he follows. You approach the bed and stop. Recently you gave up the pretense of each having a separate room and now you both reside in your former bedroom. His was turned into yet another armory and a study, while dining chambers with a fire-pit were added to yours. You often share dinner in it, discussing everything and anything, often ending up on the fur rugs in front of fire, sometimes just sitting holding each other, sometimes in such a hurry to satisfy your thirst for each other that the next room seems miles away. A much larger bed was specifically made for your chambers, your king personally overlooking its carving out of a single stump of an ancient oak tree. The bedposts were cut out to imitate the roots and branches of the tree, luscious foliage crafted out of the wood and decorated with precious metals. You often lie on your back, looking on the exquisite canopy over your head, feeling secure, hidden from the rest of the world, enveloped in the warm circle of your king's embrace. Your lover tends to take up the middle of the bed, spreading his arms wide, though always still holding you close to him in his sleep.

He followed you to the bedroom and is standing, shamelessly ogling your body, now covered with only the thin layer of a sheer undertunic. It is hardly covering your buttocks. You turn around with an innocent smile. "My lord needs to lie down not to reopen the wounds", he readily follows your suggestion, walking around the other side of the bed. With his free hand he unbuckles his trousers and wriggles out of them. He hastily pulls covers over the lower half of his body and they tent over his raging erection. Having a row seems to always bring him on the brink of arousal exceptionally quickly. Especially if he happens to win an argument. Today though the heat of your fight, mixed with the excitement of the hunt, seem to intoxicate your king better than any cordial. His pupils are dilated, hiding the stormy blue of his irises, the broad chest with coarse hair that always drives you to sensual frenzy is heaving, his healthy hand clenching the sheets and covers. You lick you lips and start crawling towards him giving him an excellent view through the low collar of your garment. His gaze is like a scorching touch caressing your breasts, stomach and mound. You feel wet heat between your legs and an almost painful emptiness and hunger for his cock deep in your sex and up in your stomach. At the same time you remember his injury and your still remaining desire to teach him some caution. Several fevered scenarios bubble in your mind while you are also considering executing your punishment over him.


	2. Chapter 2

Judging by the smug expression on your King's face, he is expecting some spectacular favours tonight. His lips are half-open and moist, obviously he licked them in anticipation, his pupils dilated… In a word, he is as delectable as it gets. He is leaning back at the headboard, surrounded by pillows, his ebony strands running down his shoulders. During the day it takes a lot of effort to silence the lascivious thoughts that a look at your King's hair provokes in you. The memories of grasping this hair and twisting your fingers into his braids, while he is thrusting into you, often overcome you at the very wrong moments. Just before the treacherous hunt, when saying goodbye to your King by the stables, you were all royal decorum and impeccable dignity, wishing him luck and smiling courteously. When astride his pony, he looked down at you with a tiny warm smile and slightly bowed his head, the raven strands fell on his face and he shook them off. The wave of jet black strands mixed with sterling whirled over and behind his shoulders. Something inside you twisted, scorching desire suddenly flooding your stomach, flames licking the insides of your thighs. To everyone else you remained as reserved and collected as the circumstances demanded, but your lover's breath hitched, you noticed his nostrils flare momentarily, and you saw one of his black brows twitch. You pressed your lips together, as if in indignation, to disprove his suspicions, but his eyes already filled with mirth. You tried to frown but your lips twitched. You looked in his eyes and let him see the passion you felt. The lust and desire then mixed with tenderness in your chest as you knew that you would miss him dearly for the days to come. "Come back to me," you were saying with your eyes. The slightest flutter of his lashes and twitch of his brows were his answer to you. "I hear you. I will..."

At the moment, the white bandages covering his right arm, shoulder, and half of his chest are a stark contrast to the black chest hair that you are dying to dig your fingers into. Sliding your palms through it and slightly scraping his broad muscles with your nails is one of your most favourite foreplay devices. And today all your devices will be required. You are still slightly angry and that makes you very, very zealous. You slide close to him and kneel above his erection, not quite straddling him but balancing above him. You push your fingers in his hair and pulling down and back you secure yourself access to his throat. You press an open-mouth hot kisses to it, letting him feel a swirl of your tongue on his skin, as a promise of caresses in quite different locations, which are yet to come. His healthy hand slide to the back of your head and he now pulls at your hair. You tilt your face as you know that he is trying to look into your eyes. "My nulukh..." he murmurs, the most intimate of his appellations for you taking your breath away. Your heart clenches and with a moan you dive into a fervered kiss, wrapping your arms around his neck, sinking on his lap. His erection is trapped between you two, the covers still separating your bodies but you feel the hotness of his length and rub your sex against it. You hear rumble deep in his chest, and he tries to topple you over to press you into sheets. You strain your legs, not letting him and slightly push your upper body from him to look at his face. You smile at his impatience, "Kurdu, you need to rest, your wounds..." You lift your hips and pull the covers back from between your bodies. He moans to show his pleasure, encouraging you and then quickly chokes on the sound as you wrap your fingers around his cock, giving the sensitive end a swirl of your thumb. He chuckles and drops his head back savouring your slow strokes.

It is magnificent. Long and thick, hot and smooth in your hand, your small palm not enough to encircle it. The broad body structure with exceptionally long and wide torso of Dwarves is reflected in the girth of all their members, long arms and big feet echoed in the length. It had taken you a very long time to get used to it, to be able to take it in completely. The first time you lay your eyes on it, your brows hiked up and you blurted out in a very indignified squeak: "That will never fit!" He guffawed and fell back in the pillows, his eyes wrinkled in unclouded merriment, warm hands grabbing your middle and pulling you to his chest. "Not a very gracious compliment but I appreciate the sentiment", you looked in his laughing eyes. "What is it with you men and size? Bigger is not always better, whatever they say. There is a reasonable extent, after which it is just impossible to..." You vaguely waved your hands in the air, your gestures suggestive of some other movements. He smirked. "And it is twice as thick and one and a half times longer than that of a well-endowed Man. No need to look so self-satisfied, my Lord! It is just the biology of races, and I'm equipped only accordingly", and then you straddled him and softly said, "So, what are we to do about it, my Lord?" At that moment in his eyes you saw what assured you that you chose a man wisely. The blue stormy irises were full of earnest love and undimmed glee, trustful and exuberant he smiled to you, one of those rare smile that, as you learnt later, were seen by few if not none but you. He cocked one brow and pulling your face to his lips, in the velvety, low voice that makes your heart race and your hands tremble he murmured, "We tread carefully and slowly." And that you did.

Right now you are feeling him getting impatient, jerking in your hand, his breathing speeding up. You bend down and place slow open-mouth kisses down the healthy half of his torso, reaching his stomach, continuing to stroke his cock. You nuzzle the line of thick black hair leading down from his bellybutton and then sharply bite his hipbone. He huffs and barks a short laugh. You lead him into your mouth and give a long strong suck. He jerks his hips up and immediately hisses in pain from pulling at his bandages. You pull him out of you mouth with a languished lick and a swirl at the glans and tut-tut, "It is quite obvious, my King, that for a while you won't be able to yield a sword. You have to let others do all the labour," and with a brazen smile you settle between his stretched legs and go back to your efforts, gently but firmly pressing on his pelvis with your palms. This is quite a strenuous task, but you have had a lot of practice. And judging by the irrepressible gasps and throaty moans your are eliciting out of the heir of Durin panting under your ministrations practice indeed makes perfect. You know exactly the spot and how much pressure to apply when taking him deep in your throat you are stroking his shaft with your tongue. As much as you are enjoying it, you remind yourself that you have a furtive endeavour, your King is still to be taught a lesson. At that moment you hear him groan and he starts gently pulling at your hair. You let him go and rise above him on your knees and hands. You look in his face. He is out of his breath and the smile on his lips is rather quivery. "Let me inside, azyungel..." You lift your hips above his erection and guide him in. The first searing touch of his head to your folds causes you both to moan and when the ridge of his glans slips into you, you cry out and claw at the left side of his chest. You are conscious of the right shoulder, gripping at the headboard instead, grounding your hips in him and clenching around him. He closes his eyes and you start to move. Slow reverent rhythm of your pelvis, with a slight rise when you move ahead and a decisive push down when you drive back, with his shaft rubbing just the right spot on your inner walls and his tip hitting just a bit too far, just a bit too deep in your stomach… You close your eyes too and lose yourself in the tide of sensations, rocking on the waves of pleasure, the feeling of your body evanescing in the heat and the intimacy of you two becoming one, one bloodstream and one heartbeat, in unison and in union… You drop your head back and push harder. Suddenly he gasps for breath and through the mist of ecstasy you realized that it is in pain and not pleasure. You look down and see your left hand grabbing his injured shoulder. You jerk your hand back and pause but he pushes his hips up encouraging you to continue. He returns your apologetic smile with a rakish smirk, obviously pleased at your loss of control. The spell is broken though and your impish side is back. You continue riding him, holding to the headboard with your left hand. You caress his intact shoulder with your hot right palm, slide it along his arm and intertwine your fingers. You briefly revel in how your fingers interlace with his rough calloused ones, you caress his broad wrist that you cannot quite encircle either and then you guide his hand to the headboard. You quickly whisper a spell and his wrist is secured to the carved wood with a glowing golden ribbon that you conjured. He fleetingly looks at it, grins lopsidedly and drawls, "What exactly are you up to, zundush?" You let go of the headboard and sit straighter. It is schooling time.

The day you discovered the extend of the possessiveness of your King was a fascinating one. You were spread on your bed, your melhekh lying between your thighs, his large hands roaming your body while he was busy lavishing your breasts with kisses and nibbles. You were arching your back, your head pressed into the pillows. One of your hands slipped down and found your clit. You gave it a stroke in a tight precise circle, when all of a sudden your King grabbed your hand and placed it back to your side. You hardly even acknowledged it, lost in the searing lips moving over your left nipple, but when it happened the second time you pressed his shoulders up with your palms and looked into the half-lidded eyes. "My King?" the unsaid question hung between you and you thought that for a moment your King looked a bit guilty, bashfully looking aside, but then you shook this thought off as absurd. Instead of answering he pressed his lips to yours, then doubled his efforts on your breasts, and your body melted under his ministrations, but the stubborn side of you woke up. You slid your hand down purposefully to have it promptly removed. You tried to wiggle from under him and sit up, but were pressed down by his weight and his lips found just the right spot on your neck. You sighed and wrapped his shoulders with arms, caressing the back of his neck, stroking the nape and his acutely sensitive ears. You murmured words of love and loyalty, to your King, your heart, your urzud… You cupped his face and drew his gaze into yours, letting all your love and desire pour through your eyes. For a few seconds you thought there wasn't enough bond and openness built between you two yet, as a lot of it was demanded to resolve what was an obvious matter of trust, but suddenly your King let out a raspy sign and drawing his brows together he met your gaze. You smiled an open smile and lifted a brow. He deliberately shifted his gaze at your lips and whispered, "I prefer my hands on you, my zundush, only mine..." You placed soft kisses to his cheeks and brows, encouraging him to continue, knowing well how rare and difficult such trustfulness was for him. "Then you know that it is me bringing you pleasure, and…", he stumbled and you tightened your hold on him, "Then there is no other man on your mind." He clenched his jaw and before you could open your mouth he attacked your lips with bruising kiss. You relaxed into it, pliable and warm, your fingers running through his mane, breasts pressed into his chest, your heart pounding. After a few feverish minutes of frantic grabbing, kisses and bites, you flipped your King and pressed his shoulders into the sheets. "There is no other man," the finality of your words was unwavering, your tone resolute, your eyes pulsing with your loyalty and your magic. "Only you, my Lord, my King, my kurdu," you punctured each moniker with a thrust of your hips, your hot center rubbing his erection, "only you, my heart, my love, my..." you switched to soft whispers and tender kisses. He slipped into you with a moan and his right hand cupped your breast. Not a sensual caress, but a plea, your heart missing a beat, crashing into your chest from inside to meet him, tears filling your eyes for a proud King with an injured heart, fearful to trust and begging for closeness, for kinship, for union and accordance… You merged your lips together, melting into each other, mixing the strands of your hair, your breaths, your spirits. "Mine", he growled. "Yours," you agreed. "Mine," you murmured. "Yours," he affirmed.

You are sitting straight and looking at your King. He sees the mischievous glint in your eyes and cocks a brow, looking a bit alarmed to be honest. You place your hands over your breasts and fondle them, squeezing your pink nipples between your thumbs and middle fingers, your caress your neck and train your fingers through your hair, keeping up a forceful rhythm of your pelvis. You skim your ribs and let your right palm stroke your stomach, splaying your fingers. Your King growls and pulls on the restrain. You catch his eyes and, pushing faster and deeper, you slowly move your hand lower, towards your mound, clenching your inner muscles. And finally, with your index finger you stroke your clit, in a cogent twirl, through wet curls, biting your bottom lip and letting out a throaty moan. He angrily bucks his hips and hisses through gritted teeth, "Do not dare!" You abruptly stop any movement. "What was it it, my Lord?" His eyes are fierce slits, his teeth bare in a snarl. "Do not stop!" "You should make up your mind, my Lord," your is voice sarcastic, pushing him a bit further. You are playing with fire, but it is just fireworks, they do not burn. He can still move his right arm, given through pain, and as you have established long time ago, the magic ribbons you use in bedchambers can be snapped if enough force is applied. But you both play along, keeping the pretense, though only partially, real emotions running below the game. "Should I stop or should I continue, my Lord?" you mock the title, bucking your hips a little. "Untie me, woman, and continue moving," you widen your eyes in a mock surprise, "and keep your hands away from what belongs to me!" "I thought that," you place tips of your fingers in your wet curls , "belongs to me." "No," he jerks his left arm again. "No? But how come I can do that?" you lick your finger and rub your clit. He is boiling, grinding his teeth and hazardously silent, his brows drawn together, and you gather you have only a few seconds before he and the restrains snap and you are thrown to the bed and rudely fornicated with. You let out a throaty laugh and sink all the way down, the head of his cock pushing at the furthest corner of your insides. You lean down and whisper in his ear, "What are you afraid of, my melhekh? What do you think is on my mind when I touch myself?" you swirl your tongue around your index finger and he is watching the pink tip, briefly mesmerized by the movement and your low, sensual tone. You draw a line between your breast, slide down and press on the sensitive bundle of nerves. He follows it with his eyes, and your see muscles straining on his neck, but before he makes his move, you command, "Thorin, look at me." His eyes snap up and he stares at your, irises taken over by black pupils. "You, I'm thinking about you," you smile, your deft fingers caressing yourself, while you dive back into the intoxicating rhythm that is pushing you both to climax, and with every thrust you lift your hips higher, sink lower, push harder, biting your lip harder. "I think only of your body, my kurdu, of our lovemaking… I imagine it is your fingers fucking me while your cock is in my…" you are losing breath, losing your mind, sliding into swearing, unable to form sentences, disjointed words in Khuzdul and your native tongue pouring out of you, obscene descriptions mixed with proclamation of love, low moans and sweet cries… You do not notice how at some point the restrains melt away, his left arm wraps around you waist, he lifts his torso, pain and bandages forgotten, the two of you moving in a frantic, passionate rhythm, your head thrown back, his scorching lips leaping from your neck to your breasts to your lips and back, his raspy cries mixed with your sobs, and with one last joint push your fall over the precipice, your orgasms flooding you and burning you, your bodies intertwined, you two wrapped around each other in the charring flames of your love and greed for each other.

And then you literally fall down on the bed, him with a grumble from pain in his shoulder, you with a sob from the shock of his cock suddenly slipping out of you. "Oh Malah, woman, you'll be the death of me," he groans and straightens his back on the bed. You chuckle. "Any more banalities to proclaim, my Lord?" "No, dearest, I really mean it, I think my stitches came apart." You jump up and start inspecting the bandages. There is a bit of blood seeping through, where the wound was the deepest. You start moving from the bed to get fresh bandages, but he pulls you close and buries his face into your hair. "Later, zundush..." He already sounds sleepy and a small sated smile is tugging at the corners of his beloved lips. You kiss it and carefully settle on the healthy half. "You do realize, my King, that we wouldn't have ended in this dither, hadn't you gone to that hunt?" He slightly opens one eye and sleepily smirks, "Where is the fun in that?" Oh, the nerve in that Dwarf!


End file.
